


half rest

by marrowbones



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:35:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26091982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marrowbones/pseuds/marrowbones
Summary: “I’m afraid the finer points of opera are beyond me,” Jon admits when he sets Elias’s coffee on the side table and settles on the edge of the bed.+A rainy, lazy morning and an impromptu voice lesson.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 9
Kudos: 56
Collections: Jonelias Week 2020





	half rest

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "pre-canon" JE week prompt and running with the what-if of Elias seducing Jon into becoming the Archivist.
> 
> NB: Jon's flavor of ace in this is sex-favorable, although the sex is only implied.

“I’m afraid the finer points of opera are beyond me,” Jon admits when he sets Elias’s coffee on the side table and settles on the edge of the bed. A weekend. It’s been raining since early, and the morning is stretching luxuriously long. Elias had insisted Jon actually _rest_ , for once, and enforced it last night by wearing him out so thoroughly that Jon didn’t even dream. He’d woken up to pleasant ache and then, after hours of the static soundtrack of rain, braved the kitchen for coffee and pressed play on the stereo on a whim. The light strains of an aria had filtered through the speakers, a high, sweet soprano.

“It sounds pretty, but it doesn’t go anywhere.”

Elias hums. “‘Going anywhere’ isn’t really the point with opera,” he says indulgently.

“What is, then? Educate me.”

Elias looks thoughtful for a few moments, unfazed by Jon’s playfully scathing tone. He traces an idle fingertip along Jon’s bare thigh. 

“Have you ever seen someone sing like that? In a concert, images, films? Such sound for what appears to be so little effort. It’s incredible, really, what the human body can do when put to the test.”

Elias sits up, the sheets pooling low around his hips, and pulls Jon back against the broad, sleep-warm expanse of his chest. Jon leans into him willingly as he hooks his chin over Jon’s shoulder and smooths his hand slowly down the placket of the shirt Jon had thrown on for modesty when he got up to make coffee. Elias stops at his stomach. 

“But you need the right foundation,” he murmurs.

Jon obeys the guiding pressure of his palm until the arch of his lower back is one long, uninterrupted line with the rest of his spine. Elias takes in a deep breath and Jon takes it with him, and he melts into the solid press of human warmth at his back when they breathe out as one. Jon has only just gotten used to being touched like this, with such casual ownership and affection that all the awkward stiffness is coaxed right out of him. He feels shored up. Steadier. Held.

Of course, then Elias says, “You’re wearing my shirt.”

Jon tenses on reflex, his face going warm. Only just used to it, but still skittish.

“I—”

Elias shushes him gently, hides his smile in the curve of Jon’s neck. 

“It suits you. I wouldn’t have you wear anything else.”

Jon eases but nudges Elias in the ribs anyway, for good measure. “It would suit me better if you weren’t such a prat.”

“But you’re so charming when you blush,” Elias says, unrepentant. Then, softer, “Breathe, Jon.” 

“Is that all?” Jon says, mostly to hear that fond exhale of amusement at his impatience, but also for the way Elias kisses his neck just above his collar, noses into his nape as he loops his other arm around Jon’s waist and travels up.

“It’s harder than you think.” Jon’s breath catches when a hand curls loosely around his throat. “If you sing too much from here, you’ll wear out your instrument. Too much tension, too little resonance.”

Elias runs his thumb consideringly over the tendons there, the dip between Jon’s collarbones. “It’s all about control. With enough practice, you sing from here,” the hand on Jon’s stomach flexes, “and here.” The hand at his neck drops lower, splaying over his chest where the top few buttons of Jon’s stolen shirt are undone. Probably indecently low, in hindsight—but that thought evaporates at the hot, open press of Elias’s mouth to the soft place below his ear. Jon makes a small sound and bares his neck, his own hands gripping tight in the sheets.

“It takes dedication,” Elias says, lips trailing over his throat. “And focus.” He kisses him again, lower. Lingering.

The music sounds farther away now, but the soprano is still singing. Jon’s heart flutters with her tremulous vibrato. Elias slowly slips the topmost button free. 

“You give your whole body to it,” he whispers, and Jon thinks: _as with anything worth doing_. 


End file.
